


Storybrooke's Runaway Bride

by klocke2011



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25523254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klocke2011/pseuds/klocke2011
Summary: Having already left three grooms at the altar, Emma Nolan is branded "the runaway bride" by jaded city journalist Killian Jones. But, after his facts are called into question, Killian races to Emma's hometown of Storybrooke, Maine, to save his reputation and report on her upcoming fourth trip down the aisle -- during which he's convinced she'll run again. Though he's there on a muckraking mission, Killian can't help but fall for the woman he's writing about.The Captain Swan/Runaway Bride mashup nobody asked for.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating might change later on.
> 
> I do not own the characters or plots of either Once Upon a Time or Runaway Bride.

Killian barely noticed the cool autumn breeze as he pushed through the crowds of tourists, hotdog vendors, and office workers that clogged the sidewalks on their lunch breaks. While he fumbled in his pocket for his phone, a limo pulled up to the curb just ahead of him; the driver rushed around to open the rear passenger door and a haughtily dressed older woman stepped out, one hand wrapped around her designer handbag and the other holding what was either a large rat or a small dog. Either way, it was wearing a tutu. Giving up on his phone for a moment, Killian jogged a few steps in order to catch up to her as she made her way towards the awning-covered entrance of a ritzy building complete with doorman.

“Excuse me,” he half-shouted above the din of the city. The woman slowed and turned towards him, sizing him up with suspicion. “I’m thinking of writing an article about limousines. What do you think of people who’ve never been in one?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know people like that,” the woman replied, her face twisted into a look that was equal parts fear and disgust as she half-hid behind her doorman, who glared at Killian with an unspoken warning in his eyes. Killian scoffed and kept moving. He was willing to bet that woman had just used someone who had never been in a limo as a human shield from riff-raff on the sidewalk. But her absurdity wasn’t going to provide him with enough material to fill his column inches, so it wasn’t worth his time to point it out. He resumed his search for his phone, eventually finding it in his blazer’s inner pocket, and dialed Robin’s number.

When, after five or six rings, the call went to voicemail, Killian sighed. “Mate, pick up! I have a deadline in three hours and absolutely nothing to write about. I need to bounce ideas off of you. Call me back.”

Eventually, Killian made his way through the busy Boston sidewalks and arrived at The Looking Glass, his favorite pub in the city. It was owned by his friend from back home, Will Scarlet, and Killian had spent many hours sitting at its bar in various stages of intoxication. He’d composed more than a few of his columns there as well. Something about the place helped break through his writer’s block and over time it had become his habit to take up residence on a stool when all else failed. In a pinch, he could use the bar’s patrons as source material. With his deadline looming, Killian hoped the place could work its usual magic once more.

It being noon on a Thursday, there were only a few people occupying its polished, dark wood booths. The place had a whimsical feel to it, as was appropriate given its name’s source, and the wood dividers between the booths were carved with various characters from _Alice in Wonderland_ : the caterpillar, the White Rabbit, the Cheshire Cat, even the Dodo bird. One character was conspicuously absent, though: the Queen of Hearts. Will found her predilection for chopping off people’s heads to be in very poor taste and he refused to have her represented in his bar. The dark green walls were covered with drawings from Carroll’s books, fanciful sconces shaped like teacups, and a looking glass or two. The bar itself had playing cards of all four suites carved along its edge and had tall stools with dark red leather seats tucked beneath it.

As Killian scanned the room, he noted a man in his thirties hunched over his drink at the bar and signaling to Will that he’d like another. In one of the booths, a couple poured over their maps of Boston, their food finished and pushed to the side. In the front window, a mother was trying to convince her young child to eat his apple slices instead of pressing his face up against the window and making faces at the passersby. Little chance of any of them providing the spark he needed to get a column done in the next three hours.

But then he saw her: a very petite, attractive woman perched on one of the stools. She wore an exquisitely cut blazer, styled her blond hair in a very becoming pixie cut, and her pencil skirt was just short enough that, sitting down, it rode up quite high. She absent-mindedly swirled the drink in her hand, the sandwich in front of her nearly finished, and stared off into space, her eyes not focusing on anything in particular. Looking towards the back of the bar, Killian caught Will’s eye; Will glanced towards the woman, smirked, and went back to helping the dejected-looking fellow. Deciding that if he didn’t get an idea from her, at least he could get something else, Killian sauntered over and sat down, leaving one stool between them.

She didn’t seem to notice his presence, even when Will came over to deliver Killian his usual: rum and a basket of French fries. Glancing towards her out of the corner of his eye, Killian pushed back from the bar, causing the stool’s legs to scrape across the wood floor. The resulting screech knocked the woman out of her stupor and she turned towards him, looking slightly flustered.

“Apologies, love. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She turned, took a moment to size him up, then smiled flirtatiously. “I’m very glad you did.”

~~~~

Half an hour later, Killian had charmed the woman’s (Tink, he learned) life story out of her. It wasn’t anything he could use for his column, but it wasn’t boring either, and if he was going to spend these hours before deadline not coming up with something to write about, he’d rather spend them in the company of a beautiful woman. Will kept glancing at him and then pointedly looking at the clock; he was fully aware of what 3 pm on Thursdays meant to Killian and enjoyed reminding him every ten minutes. It felt a bit like a small child who sits in the backseat and repeatedly asks, “are we there yet?” Killian ignored him.

“So, what’s in store for us in tomorrow’s column?” Tink casually sat back on the stool, uncrossing and recrossing her legs with a devilish glint in her eye.

Killian smirked. The women he charmed generally fell into one of two categories: those who were impressed by his job but didn’t want to discuss it and those who used it as a means of playing hard to get. The latter group _always_ wanted to talk about his job and Tink definitely fell into that group. It was by no means a deal breaker. Some of the loveliest women he’d spent time with had grilled him about his column for what seemed like ages before relenting to his charms.

“I’m more of a last-minute man, darling. Looming deadlines kick up my greatest ideas, so it’s often not until an hour or two before deadline that I write what you see in the paper.”

“Hmmm,” Tink murmured as she stood up and walked towards the dart board on the opposite wall. “So, you get your ideas from what, starting up a conversation with a woman in a bar and attacking her dart playing,” she threw a dart straight into the bullseye, “while you contemplate whether or not she’s worth hitting on?” Another bullseye.

Killian reached for his drink. “I can’t hit on you until I get an idea, love.”

Tink landed a third bullseye before looking at him with incredulity and a streak of anger. “Well, that’s flattering.” She reached for her purse and pulled out her wallet. “Either I’m interesting enough to squeeze a story out of or you bait me into an overblown reaction that can inspire one of those bitter diatribes you like to write about women.”At some point, Will had joined them behind the bar and Tink tossed a couple bills towards him before slinging her purse over her shoulder.

Killian had seriously underestimated this woman. “I don’t write bitter diatribes about women.”

“Ooooh, beg to differ, mate.” Of course Will would choose to chime in now.

“Very often,” he corrected indignantly.

Rolling her eyes and lightly slapping his shoulder with the back of her hand, Tink scoffed again. “Only when the ideas aren’t flowing, huh? It was so nice to meet you, one-minute man.” With that, she strode out of the bar without a backwards glance.

“It’s last-minute man,” Killian grumbled into his rum. Writing would be even more difficult now, having lost both a potential story and the company of a beautiful woman. He hunched over the bar and tried to summon a topic for his column but could think of nothing.

“You know, for a good-looking bloke, you don’t do so well with the ladies.” Will had reappeared and the giant grin on his face irked Killian, possibly even more than rejection did, and he looked around for something to throw at his friend’s face that wouldn’t break the wall of expensive liquor bottles behind Will if he missed. Finding nothing, Killian motioned for another round, knowing Will would have to travel to the other end of the bar to fill his glass, and rubbed his face with his hand. He had to think of something, and quickly. His editor would not tolerate another missed deadline.

“I’ve seen much worse.” The voice drifted from the other end of the bar but Killian didn’t look up. He did not want to commiserate with some sad sap right now, especially one that sounded as pompous and full of himself as this one did. But the voice tried again. “I said, I’ve seen much worse.” Apparently this guy couldn’t take a hint. Killian slid his hand away from his face in a way that he hoped conveyed his extreme aversion to having this conversation and begrudgingly shifted his gaze to the man he’d noticed when he’d first entered the bar. The man was more than a little pathetic-looking. His mousy brown hair curled at the ends in a style that echoed teenage heartthrobs from the 1990s but he had none of the looks to back that allusion up. Everything about him—his posture, his facial expression, the way his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them or at least worn them for several days—said despair and resignation with an overriding note of smarminess. Killian signed internally; there was no way this conversation would lead to a story because this guy’s story had been told a thousand times.

Without fully turning to face him, Killian let out a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement but this guy would not be deterred by social cues. “The brush-off. I’ve seen much worse.” There was a slight slur on “brush-off” and Killian wondered just how long this guy had been sitting there. “I’ve witnessed far more treacherous exits than that.” As he said this, the guy stood, with only a slight wobble, and walked to the dart board that Tink had just recently vacated. Killian didn’t bother turning around; it was obvious that this guy was going to say his piece regardless of Killian’s reaction to it.“At least she had the decency to reject you in private.”

“Not as private as I thought,” Killian mumbled. Will had returned with the rum, setting it in front of Killian before leaning against the back of the bar, ready for a show, and Killian glared at him as he downed the rum in one gulp. He turned away from Will but, in doing so, had to face the other guy, who was pulling the darts out of the board. He wore a a black blazer, black shirt, and dark jeans; on anyone else it probably would have looked classy, but on him it looked overly pretentious. Killian hated him on sight.

“They love you, they hate you. They’re hot, they’re cold, they’re high, they’re low,” the man ranted, punctuating each adjective by throwing a dart, which invariably missed the board altogether. His failure rate didn’t seem to bother him, though. The mere act of throwing something looked like it was therapeutic for him.

As the man rambled, Killian sighed and reached for a napkin before pulling a pen out of his blazer pocket. He needed to come up with something, and soon. Maybe some stream of consciousness writing would make something click. But first, he needed this guy to shut up. “They’re high, they’re low, they’re up, they’re down. It’s been fun making this list with you, mate, but I have other things to attend to right now.” This seemed to shake the stranger out of his monologue. He stopped throwing darts and practically skipped over to Killian, his face alight with something that looked like excitement tinged with rage.

“But you’ve yet to come up with a really superb idea! I could help.” He looked like a kid in a candy store, wide-eyed and overstimulated, and was standing very close to Killian at this point. He reeked of alcohol, both his breathe and his clothes, and Killian wished he hadn’t come here today. Perhaps his lucky spot was losing its magic. Grabbing his napkin and pen, he stood up and moved down towards the other end of the bar, away from the drunkard and closer to Will. He might just be desperate enough to use one of Will’s hare-brained ideas; at the very least, he’d be useful to brainstorm with. Still refusing to take social cues, his new bar friend followed.

“There’s a girl from my hometown you could write about. She likes to dump grooms right at the altar. They call her the runaway bride. She’s performed the travesty seven or eight times! Turns around, runs like hell, bolts, ploughing down the aisle, knocking old ladies out of her way. Like those bulls that run wherever in Spain.” He grew more and more animated, waving his arms around and spitting like King George in Hamilton. He was a car crash: no matter how much you wanted to look away, you couldn’t stop yourself. So Killian half stood, half sat on his new stool, frozen and mesmerized by this spiteful performance. And still the man continued. “And guess what? She’s got the next victim all lined up! She’s turning another body on a spit! Another man is doomed to humiliation!”

Killian smiled. Perhaps this place’s luck hadn’t worn out after all.

~~~

Emma was furious. Beyond furious, she was enraged. No, she was several steps further up on the anger scale than rage but couldn’t think of the right adjectives right now. And she was confused, so horribly confused about how a Boston newspaper columnist had come to write about (an embellished and even downright wrong version of) her love life. Was there a word for overwhelming rage combined with equally overwhelming confusion? Someone should get on that.

Shortly after dragging herself out of bed, Emma had gone outside to pick up the paper like she always did in the morning, thrown it on the table, and proceeded to start up the coffee pot and make herself breakfast (if you could call ripping open a packet of Poptarts “making breakfast”). Caffeine in hand, she sat at the kitchen table to read (mostly skim) the news of the day, ending with the weather forecast so she could choose her outfit accordingly. She knew it was old school to get her weather report from the newspaper, but she had grown up watching her father do it every morning and found comfort in doing the same.

If asked why she chose to read his column that morning, she couldn’t give an answer. Nine times out of ten she totally skipped it. Killian Jones could be amusing, witty, even funny, but his propensity for stereotyping women and his playboy attitude usually aggravated her too much. Perhaps it was because the word “bride” was in the column’s title and, since she was a month away from her wedding, the word had caught her eye. Perhaps it was because the column was accompanied by a photo of its author, who was annoyingly attractive, and she gave into temptation by reading his words. In the end, it didn’t matter why she’d read the column that morning; what did matter was the rage and confusion reading it caused.

> _Today is a day of profound introspection. I have been accused of using this column to direct bitter diatribes at the opposite sex. This uncomfortable accusation plunged me into at least fifteen minutes of serious reflection, from which I have emerged with the conclusion that, yes, I traffic in female stereotypes._
> 
> _But how can one blame me when every time I step out my front door, I meet fresh proof that the female oct-types are alive and well: the mother, the virgin, the whore, the crone. They’re elbowing you in the subway, stealing your cabs, and overwhelming you with perfume in elevators. But perhaps in fairness to the fairer sex, I do need to broaden my horizons and add some new goddesses to the pantheon. I would like to nominate for deity the cheerleader, the co-ed, and the man-eater, the last of which concerns me most today._
> 
> _In ancient Greece, this fearsome female was known as Erinyes, the devouring death goddess. In India, she is Kali, who likes to devour her boyfriend Shiva’s entrails while her yoni devours his… never mind. In Indonesia, the bloody jawed man-eater is called Ragma. And in Storybrooke, Maine, where she serves as sheriff’s deputy, she’s known as Miss Emma Nolan, AKA the Runaway Bride._
> 
> _What is unusual about Miss Nolan is that she likes to dress up her men up as grooms before she devours them._

That was as far as Emma got before she couldn’t see anything but red.

Somehow, she got dressed and headed into the sheriff’s office. Thank goodness her autopilot skills were good and small town traffic light because otherwise her Bug would likely have found its way into a ditch on her way into town. But she made it, whipping the door open and enjoying the sound of it crashing into the wall. (If only that had been his head.) She walked slowly and deliberately to her desk, as though each step took immense concentration, sat down, and rested her hands flat on top of the desk. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down.

Maybe it had been a dream. Maybe this was all a dream. One of those dreams made up of pre-wedding nerves that she’ll laugh about in the morning. Yes, that was it. This was a dream and she would wake up and there wouldn’t be a column about her being a man-eater in _The Boston Globe._ And she would go about her life, forgetting this dream like she had so many others.

But then there was the smell of a bear claw. Dreams didn’t usually have smells, right? That was new. Willing herself to still be in bed with her wonderful fiancé bringing her her favorite pastry, Emma slowly opened her eyes. She wasn’t in her bedroom, it wasn’t Graham setting a bear claw on her nightstand as a way to entice her into getting up (it had happened before, quite a few times), and this wasn’t a dream. Her father stood in front of her, his face etched with concern and more than a little wariness, holding a bag from Granny’s.

At least the bear claw was real.

She held her hand out for the bag and David offered it without a word, heading back to his office to get some paperwork done like he did every morning. Grateful for the delay in what she expected would be a day of interrogations and unhelpful comments, Emma took the bear claw out of the bag and slowly began eating. (Maybe she could find a way to have a bear attack Killian Jones, she thought as she licked icing off her fingers.)

Miraculously, the day passed quickly and without anyone bringing up the column. At ten, they had to mediate a dispute between two fishermen who both claimed a certain berth in the marina that was apparently worth a shouting match and multiple insults to each other’s mothers. At eleven thirty, Emma gladly accepted her father’s offer to pickup lunch for them even though it was usually her job. At one, they had to haul Leroy off his usual street corner for shouting conspiracy theories at passersby and scaring the tourists. From two to four, she patrolled the state highway heading out of town; bored high school kids had started using it as a drag racing track after school. After finishing up some paperwork, she left the office at five without a thought of Killian Jones and his stupid column.

Once again on autopilot, she headed for Storybrook’s only bar, the Rabbit Hole, to meet her friends for their usual Friday night happy hour. As soon as she walked inside, though, she remembered why she’d been avoiding people all day. Although she’d seen the two fishermen at the marina, Leroy, and the high school kids speeding down the highway, exactly none of them were likely to have ever even seen a copy of _The Boston Globe,_ let alone read this morning’s edition. But the crowd at the Rabbit Hole on a Friday night included a sizable chunk of the town’s residents, many of whom definitely read that paper daily.

Although the lighting was pretty low, Emma could see how the head of every person in the bar turned towards her simultaneously, so perfectly in sync that it looked like a shot from a movie. For a moment, Emma froze in front of the door, overwhelmed with the attention and unsure of whether she wanted to tell them all to mind their own freaking business or just make her way to the table her friends were already occupying without acknowledging the situation. In the end, she chose the latter, wanting to exit the spotlight as quickly as possible. In another perfect movie moment, everyone’s stares followed her across the bar; people only returned to their own conversations once she had sat in the booth and slouched down as far as possible so people couldn’t see her.

Elsa, Ruby, and Belle stared back at her, each with a different look on their face. Elsa’s expression was pure concern, Belle exuded understanding, and Ruby glared menacingly at everyone seated nearby, her wolfishly protective streak for those she loved on full display. For a few moments, they all just sat and stared, no one knowing how to bring up the elephant in the room or whether Emma wanted it brought up at all. Finally, Ruby cracked. “So, what the actual fuck?”

Emma sighed the deepest sigh of her entire life; she’d been holding it in since she read the damn thing this morning but had’t realized it. “Well, that answers my first question about whether this was a bachelorette prank one of you jokers pulled off.”

“Emma, you told us no bachelorette jokes, so it definitely wasn’t us. We wouldn’t do that to you.” Elsa reached across the table and patted Emma’s hand. “I’ll go get you something to drink,” she said before making her way to the bar.

“How are you feeling? Have you talked to Graham? Or your parents?” Belle shoved the basket of onion rings they’d ordered in anticipation of Emma’s arrival and Emma ate one before answering and washed it down with the beer Elsa had returned with.

“I mean, I saw my dad all day at work but he didn’t bring it up. He knew, it was obvious he knew, but he didn’t say anything. Haven’t talked to Mom and definitely haven’t talked to Graham. I’ve been trying to forget about it as much as possible and had mostly succeeded until I came in here. This morning, though, I thought I was going to have to drive to Boston and rip that chauvinistic asshole limb from limb.” She turned her attention to Ruby, who had remained suspiciously quiet. “What are you plotting over there, Rubes? I was expecting you to offer to drive the getaway car or go buy plastic bags to put his body parts in.” Ruby’s silence was becoming rather off-putting and Emma was slightly worried that maybe she’d already driven to Boston and done the deed herself.

“Oh, I think murder would be too good for that little shit,” Ruby growled. “He’d either haunt you or find a way to use it as material for his next woman-hating column. No, that jackass needs to be taught a lesson, needs to have his ego deflated and his pompous ass put in its place.” The protective streak was obviously not limited to keeping the bar’s other patrons from staring at Emma excessively, then.

Belled looked intrigued. “It’s a good idea, but just how would you go about accomplishing that?” This question seemed to snap Ruby out of wolf mode; she sat up straight, adjusted her leave-nothing-to-the-imagination red lace top, and shrugged.

“Beats me. All I know is that the worst thing you can do to a guy like that is take away their power. It’s the only thing they respond to.”

Emma turned to Elsa, her best friend and the person she knew would approach this with the greatest common sense. “Els, what do you think?”

Elsa lifted her eyes from the table and stared straight at Emma, a determined look in her eye. “He dragged you through the mud in a major newspaper. He lied. He made things up. He manipulated your life and your pain to justify his fucked up view of the world. Ruby’s right. You take him down.” The steely resolve in her eyes was something Emma had never seen before and it gave her a brilliant idea, a way to funnel the anger and rage and confusion bubbling in her veins towards something that would make Killian Jones pay for the pain and humiliation he’d caused her. And Graham and her parents, come to think of it. Vaguely recalling a journalism class she took in college, she knew exactly what to do.

~~~~

Being called to Regina’s office always felt vaguely similar to being called to the principal’s office in grade school. But when Ariel, Regina’s secretary, had emailed him early on Monday morning to ask him to come in before lunch, Killian didn’t worry. He’d gotten his “runaway bride” piece in with plenty of time to spare on Thursday and had even started laying out Tuesday’s column over the weekend (“laying out” being a loose term that mainly referred to Killian thinking that he needed to come up with a topic). So he walked towards Regina’s office with absolutely no concerns, saying hello to Ariel and offering to talk her up during the meeting.

“Uh, thanks Killian, but please don’t mention my name in there.” Ariel looked flustered and even a little scared, but Killian had no time to ask why. Regina flung her door open, a scowl on her face as she gestured for him to enter and take a seat.

Killian immediately noticed that Robin, his best friend from childhood who also happened to be Regina’s husband, sat at the table in the corner of the office, a grave look on his face. “Why…” he began to ask.

“Just sit down, Jones,” Regina spat out before he could finish the question. She took her place behind the desk and looked between Killian and the chair across from her with narrowed eyes until he slowly lowered himself onto it. Only then did she pick up a piece of paper from her desk and begin reading.

“‘Dear Editor, Greetings from the Sticks. Perhaps you believe that a rural education is focused mainly on hog-calling and tractor maintenance rather than reading. Why else would you print a piece of fiction about me and call it fact? I suppose Mr. Jones was too busy thinking up slanderous statements about how I dump men for kicks to bother with something silly like accuracy in reporting. Which is understandable because with a man-eater like me on the loose, who has time to check facts? That’s why I was surprised to find Mr. Jones’ editor was a woman. Call me a sentimental fool, but I sort of hoped we man-eaters could stick together. Anyway, I’m just dropping you big-city folks this little note to say I have thought of a ritual sacrifice that would satisfy my current appetite: Killian Jones’ column on a platter. Yours truly, Emma Nolan. PS: I have enclosed a list of the gross factual misrepresentations in your article.’ There are fifteen.

Even though he knew that this letter would likely result in some sort of punishment, Killian couldn’t help but smile. This woman had passion. This woman fought back. Once Regina finished, he chuckled. “The lass has got a way with words. Perhaps she should have a column as well. And why is Robin here?”

“He’s here for moral support,” Regina replied, leaning forward in her chair. “She sent us this list. Our lawyers say this letter is actionable, Jones.” With those words, Killian’s stomach dropped. This was serious. This wasn’t going to be a mild verbal rebuke kind of a punishment.

“Since when do you, Regina, need moral support?”

“It’s for you, Jones.” Regina’s tone softened. It was almost imperceptible, but Killian had worked with her long enough to recognize it. “I left you four messages. You don’t return my calls.” The softness had vanished again. Robin came forward and stood beside Regina though his eyes stayed on Killian. “Journalism lesson number one: you fabricate your facts, you get fired.”

So that was it. That’s why Robin was here, Robin, who was now coming around the desk to lay a comforting hand on Killian’s back. It felt as though time had stopped. He couldn’t be losing his column. He’d worked for years to get to this point in his career, starting as a fact checker and working his way up, constantly trying to distinguish himself and prove that his voice was valuable. And he’d lost so much in those years. His column had become his outlet for the cynicism and frustration and even anger he felt at life. He could twist those emotions into words that people enjoyed reading. He was good at it. Regina couldn’t take it away, not over a story that he used out of desperate necessity.

“Regina, you can’t. I’ll apologize, I’ll print a retraction, I’ll do whatever you want.” He tried hard not to sound too desperate.

“You cooked this story up, Jones, and I can’t help you. Not with this letter on my desk.” At least she did him the courtesy of looking remorseful.

“I didn’t cook anything up! I had a source.” Killian knew the source meant nothing, that a single source would not hold up against that letter, but he had to try.

Regina pursed her lips and tilted her head in a way that perfectly communicated her disbelief. “Someone reliable? Some boozehound in a bar?”

Only now did Robin chime in, having returned to his seat at the rear table. “In vino veritas.” Killian turned to glare at him briefly before resuming his defense. He ignored Regina’s comment about boozehounds in bars; no need to make this worse by revealing how right she was.

“Regina, I am a columnist. This is what columnists are _supposed_ to do. It’s what you like. We push, we stretch, we go out on a limb. That’s what makes me good.” He managed to make his voice sound even, controlled, and not at all like he was fighting for his journalistic life. 

The look on Regina’s face, however, told him that he’d lost. “No, that’s what makes you unemployed.”

All the breath whooshed out of Killian with her words. The only thing to do now was mitigate the damage. “I understand. Give me a call when you feel I’ve served my time. I’ll work up columns in the meantime so they’re ready to go when I return. No more missed deadlines.”

“This is permanent, Jones,” Regina said quietly, almost regretfully. Robin had once again come to stand next to her, looking forlorn. “If you go quietly, I’ll get you severance pay,” she added, hoping to cushion the blow. It did no such thing and she knew it, but it was all she could offer. Killian suspected that the ultimate decision was likely out of her hands and he didn’t fault her for it. He wasn’t going to make a scene and risk losing his dignity as well as his job. So he nodded and walked out of Regina’s office. As he passed her desk, he heard Ariel whisper, “I’m sorry, Killian,” but he didn’t stop or look up.

Damn that Emma Nolan.

~~~~

Three days later, Killian was sitting in bed and staring out his window. He hadn’t gotten dressed in days, had eaten nothing but pizza, and had spoken to no one, turning off his phone to avoid the pity calls and texts. He’d also drunk three bottles of rum in that time, the dark liquid his only source of escapism from this latest failure. But today, this Thursday morning with its bright sunshine that seemed to mock his pain, Killian knew he couldn’t hold the world at bay much longer. So he turned on his phone.

The emails would have to wait. Texts he could handle, their brevity and relatively shallow emotional capabilities easier to digest than emails, and he scrolled through the litany of pity, sympathy, and annoying optimism shared by his friends and colleagues. Finished with those, he headed to voicemail. There were only three of these: one from Robin, one from Will, and one from a fellow who said his father had been arrested and needed bail money immediately. Deleting the scammer call, Killian first listened to Will’s message, shouted over the bar’s Monday night football crowd, about how bloody awful his being fired was before moving on to Robin’s message.

“Killian, I know you won’t listen to this for a few days, but when you do, call me. I might have a way for you to turn this runaway bride story around.” Intrigued, Killian texted Robin to ask what his plan was, but Robin just said to meet him in a nearby park. So, for the first time since he’d trudged through his front door fresh off of being fired, Killian left his apartment with a small spark of hope blooming in his chest.

He found Robin sitting on a bench in front of a playground, watching his son Roland climb the monkey bars. Killian slid onto the bench beside him and didn’t even bother with pleasantries. “What have you got?”

“Well hello to you too. Finally done wallowing?” Robin’s tone was light but carried an undercurrent of concern. He turned to face Killian, laying his arm along the back of the bench. “I’ve been thinking about your situation and I think I might have come up with a means of vindication. But it will take work.”

“I’ve never minded hard work, you know that.” Killian was bursting at the seams. Any idea at all would be better than the black hole of self-loathing he’d been living in since Monday.

Robin smiled and nodded. “You know I do freelance work for some of these celebrity photography websites?” Killian nodded. “Well, I happen to know that they’re always looking for new human interest stories with a bit of scandal to them and….”

Killian’s patience was running thin. “What are you trying to tell me, mate?”

“You could prove that although your column was not entirely factual, your theory was correct. Then sell it to one of these sites and win back your reputation, or at least some of it.”

It was brilliant. The combination of admitting fault while also proving himself right on the larger points of the story was perfect for staging an appropriately contrite but still dignified comeback. “The real story of Miss Nolan.” Killian smiled for the first time since his meeting with Regina.

“All the gory details. And if she runs again at this upcoming wedding of hers, you’ve got a cover story and your pick of jobs. But you have to hurry and you have to get up to Maine immediately.”

“Mate, you’re bloody brilliant,” Killian said as he stood up.

Robin waved him off. “Thank Regina. She’s the one who put the pieces together for me. I’m not anywhere near devious enough to come up with that plan.”

Killian smiled wider, patted his friend on the back, and yelled as he half-jogged back to his apartment to get started, “Thank your amazing wife for me then!”

Now, he thought, just where was Storybrooke, Maine?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the slow update, life has been busy. Parts of this chapter also just didn't want to be written.
> 
> Thank you for your kind comments and kudos. This is my first fan fiction ever and I'm glad it doesn't seem to be absolutely terrible.

The next Friday morning, one week after Killian Jones had run her name through the mud and used her personal life as material for his stupid column, Emma practically ran out the front door and snatched the newspaper off her front lawn. Foregoing routine, she pulled off the protective plastic bag and opened the paper to page three. In the upper left corner, where Killian Jones’ face usually held court, was the headline, “Bride Bristles at False Facts.” Had they really done it? She read on: “Dear Emma Nolan, I apologize to you for this unfortunate matter. Killian Jones’ column will no longer be appearing in this paper. Best of luck in your upcoming marriage.”

It felt like fireworks were going off in her heart. Her letter had worked! When they had re-run an old column of his on Tuesday, she had thought that maybe the newspaper gods had just given him a leave of absence, a punishment she considered far too lenient. But here was the evidence, in black and white, that she had managed to get him fired. She had stood up for herself, refused to let him control the narrative of her life, and she had won. Emma couldn’t stop smiling as she bounded back in the house, eager to share this incredible news with Graham. She found him in the kitchen, making something weird and healthy for himself (it had kale in it, so she knew it definitely wasn’t for her) and French toast, which she knew he wouldn’t eat even if someone paid him. Today was shaping up to be a really great day. 

“They fired him! Graham, it worked! They fired him!” Emma bounced on her toes while she waited for him to pull out his ear phones and face her. She wanted someone to share the excitement with her, the sheer joy of going after a bully and winning. Finally, having dished the food onto plates, Graham turned to her with a smile on his face that looked pleased but confused. 

“That’s great, Em, but who exactly are we happy to have gotten fired?” His response took a bit of wind out of Emma’s sails. Why was he always so even-keel about everything? And why didn’t he know what she was talking about? That letter had been her sole topic of conversation since she’d written it last weekend. 

“Seriously? I sent that letter to the editor about that stupid column about me being a man-eater and I’ve been hoping that it got him fired. And look!” She shoved the newspaper in his face. “They did! They fired him!”

Graham quickly scanned the note about Killian Jones and the well wishes for their wedding and smiled warmly. “He deserved it. It’s good you stood up for yourself.” He placed their respective breakfasts on the table and sat down to eat, motioning for Emma to do the same. She did, though she continued to bounce with happiness internally as she ate her French toast. 

“Have you tried out your new backpack yet?” Graham asked. The abrupt subject change irritated Emma slightly; she wanted to continue gloating about her victory over that asshole. But it was clear Graham had moved on, specifically to the preparations for their honeymoon hiking the Blue Ridge Parkway. Emma agreed because she wanted to see the fall colors and because Graham loved spending time in nature so much, but she wasn’t exactly thrilled about spending two weeks outdoors. It was, however, the only thing he truly cared about in the whole wedding charade, so she figured she’d give it to him.

“Not yet. It’s been hard to think about anything but this newspaper thing. I’ll look at it tonight.” She felt a little guilty. Graham had spent time researching the perfect backpack for her and when the color she liked best was out of stock, had scoured eBay for a mint condition one. 

“Let me know when you do. We need to make sure it fits you properly or it’ll be really uncomfortable. I don’t want to end up carrying it and I definitely don’t want it to frustrate you, since that might frustrate other plans I have.” He grinned and winked at her, his hand reaching over to slide up the inside of her thigh under the table. Emma played along, reaching over to run her hand through his hair. As he leaned in to kiss her, she muttered something about needing to get to work but forgot about it as soon as his lips met hers.

She ended up being twenty minutes late.

~~~~

A week after being fired, Killian was driving his black Mercedes SUV along the Maine coastline, making his way to Storybrooke. And while the scenery, particularly the trees just starting to change color, certainly was beautiful, he was much too distracted by his thoughts to bother caring. He needed a plan, an angle, a way to guarantee that Emma Nolan continued her streak at her next wedding in a little less than a month. If she didn’t, he’d have no story and no means of redeeming himself. He didn’t feel great about hoping someone would continue to screw up their life, but she had screwed up his with that damned letter, so he didn’t feel as bad as he normally would have. 

But his thoughts didn’t stop with Emma Nolan. They soon wandered to Liam and how disappointed he’d be with the man Killian had become, the man who slept around, used his voice and his column to harp on entrenched gender stereotypes rather than speaking up for things that mattered, and drank to excess in order to drown his sorrows. Liam would slap him upside the head and insist that Killian was wasting his life in cynicism and shallow thrills. And he’d tell Killian for the thousandth time that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets. 

Around hour three of the drive, his mind trotted out his greatest failure, his greatest pain: Milah. Killian knew that this runaway bride story had caught him because of her, that he likely wouldn’t have listened to the boozehound in the bar if Milah hadn’t done what she did: promising to run away with him, making concrete plans of when and where and how they’d escape her crocodile of a husband, and then never showing up to meet him. He’d never gotten an explanation and since she’d changed her phone number and her email address, he couldn’t ask her. So he vented his anger and frustration and sorrow in his column, dressed up in wit and hyperbole for consumption by the masses. The pain caused by her betrayal had affected every part of his life, from his column to his views on women to his drinking.

He couldn’t let Milah ruin his shot at vindication. Emma Nolan and Milah were not the same people and if he wrote this new piece with Milah in his head, it wouldn’t ring true. Killian was confident that his hypothesis about Emma Nolan’s motives was correct but he couldn’t use her as a replacement for Milah or use his writing to get revenge on the woman who’d broken his heart. This had to be about Emma Nolan and only Emma Nolan. 

The GPS system interrupted his thoughts to tell him that he’d need to make a right in two miles. Fifteen minutes later, on a lonely stretch of two-lane road, he passed a large wooden sign with the words, “Welcome to Storybrooke.” 

Storybrooke, Maine was an idyllic seaside town. Its main thoroughfare boasted cute boutiques, an incongruous pawn shop, a library with a charming clock tower, and a diner that was in the throes of the lunch rush. Further on, he found Granny’s Bed and Breakfast; assuming this dot on the map didn’t have the market for more than one such establishment, he pulled into the parking lot and headed to the lobby. Quaint was the only word to describe the place. The young woman manning the check-in desk, however, was certainly not “Granny.” Her auburn hair hung in two braids and she practically bounced on her toes as he approached.

“Good morning! I mean afternoon! It’s always tough to remember to change that right after it’s actually noon, don’t you think? Anyway, welcome to Granny’s Bed and Breakfast! We’re here to make your stay in Storybrooke the best it can be. How may I help you today?” Wow, did this woman have energy. Killian smiled at her.

“I’d like a room please, preferably your quietest one, away from the stairs. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying, but it will be at least a week.” As he spoke, Killian fished his I.D. and credit card out of his wallet and when he looked up again, the young woman’s big blue eyes had gotten even bigger.

“Wow, I don’t know if I’ve ever had someone stay a whole week before! If people stay in town that long, they usually stay with family. There’s not a whole lot to do around here, you see, but I probably shouldn’t tell you that or else you’ll leave earlier! You’d figure it out for yourself eventually, though.” Having recovered from her apparent shock, she began working on the computer in front of her, assigning him a room, but she didn’t stop speaking. “Watching the sunsets down at the marina is nice, though, and this time of year we have campfires on Saturday nights in the main square and tell ghost stories and look for constellations. They all just look like jumbles of dots to me but my fiancé Kristoff enjoys showing them to me, so I just go along with it. Granny’s is the best spot to eat in town and I’m not just saying that because she’s my boss. There’s also a cute Italian place tucked away but it’s just where people take dates to. But I mean maybe you’ll take someone on a date, so that would be important to know!”

Finally, she handed him his key, a large old-fashioned thing with the number 4 in the handle. “Here you go! Number 4 is our quietest room, back in the corner upstairs. Breakfast is from 7-9 each morning down here in the lobby. You can email us or leave the little card that’s in your room outside your door at night so we know what your order is. I recommend the Nutella crepe, but then I love everything chocolate so I’m biased. The wifi password is here on this card and if you need to get back into the building after 10 pm you’ll need to call ahead and let us know so we can stay back and let you in. My name is Anna and I’m here if you need anything!”

Overwhelmed with the sheer wall of words that had just come at him, Killian simply nodded, smiled, and picked up his bag before heading up the stairs. If everyone in town were that chatty, the piece would be easy to write but his ears might fall off in the process. 

Twenty minutes later, having deposited his items in his room, Killian headed back out into town on foot, nodding and smiling at Anna as he quickly passed through the lobby. He wanted to get a feel for the town before he started in on interviews. When he saw the sheriff’s station, he paused and debated going in to see if Deputy Emma Nolan was on duty, but decided against it. He didn’t get recognized off his picture next to his column very often, but he assumed that this particular reader would know him on sight and he didn’t want to let her know he was here just yet. Better to casually talk to some people around town first. 

He made his way to Granny’s diner, hoping Anna hadn’t been hyperbolic in addition to excessively chatty and that the food would be decent. He sauntered in, the bell over the door chiming, and made his way over to the counter. A few heads turned as he entered, but most continued eating and ignored him altogether. He took a seat on one of the red leather stools and had barely picked up the menu before the scantily clad young woman with dark brown hair and bright red lips behind the counter stood in front of him. According to her name tag, her name was Ruby.

“Hey there. What can I get for you?” The words were straightforward, but her tone was sultry and she winked suggestively at him as she said “get.” Normally, her schoolgirl-inspired diner attire and obvious interest would have enticed Killian away from whatever task was at hand. But he was here to get his career back and he couldn’t afford to put himself within a hundred miles of this story lest he be accused of losing objectivity before he even started. 

“Hello, love. I’ll just take a BLT on rye, extra mayo, and a glass of water please.” He kept his tone charming yet polite and carefully distanced. Ruby huffed, barely kept her eyes from rolling, and headed back to the kitchen to put in his order. Killian leaned on the counter and studied his surroundings. The place had a pleasant 50s vibe to it with the chrome and red leather and jukebox, but the customers were far more interesting than the decor. Two stools down from him, a short, stocky man with a dark green hat sat huddled over his food; he continuously muttered to himself, occasionally looking up to glare at people around him. He caught Killian staring and the look on his face would have sent a lesser man running out the door. An academic-looking fellow with red hair sat in a booth across from an older gentleman with a grey beard and they were laughing uproariously together. 

And at the other end of the counter sat the most beautiful woman Killian had ever seen. Her long blonde hair mesmerized him, her red leather jacket spoke to her daring and strength, and her smile as she laughed at something the person next to her said felt like sunshine to his soul. A voice somewhere in the back of Killian’s mind told him to look away, that it was not only impolite to stare but that such a reaction could only lead to trouble. 

“Yeah, that’s her.” The grumpy looking fellow two stools down from him spoke gruffly. “Suppose you’re here to talk to her just like all the others.” 

This broke Killian out of his trance. “I’m sorry, who is she?”

“Not much of a reporter, are ya? That’s Emma Nolan, the one everyone’s been talking about since that thing about her being a man-eater.” The grumpy man rolled his eyes and went back to eating.

Killian was rather confused. “Other reporters have been here?”

“Yeah, they want to ask her about getting that asshole from Boston fired.” Ruby had reappeared, setting the grumpy man’s check in front of him. “Your order will be right out,” she said to Killian, winking as she did so. Then she walked back towards the kitchen but was stopped by the person Killian now knew to be Emma Nolan. Killian wanted to eavesdrop, but the noise in the diner wouldn’t let him. He did see Ruby grin wolfishly, but he doubted that was an uncommon facial expression for her. 

A few minutes later, Ruby once again made her way over to him, this time carrying an empty plate which she set in front of him with a flourish. But the plate wasn’t empty. In big red letters obviously written with a ketchup bottle was the message, “Go home, Jones.” 

Well, this was embarrassing. Killian felt his ears turn red, he heard the diner go silent, and he instinctively reached up to scratch behind his ear. Lifting his eyes from the plate, he looked directly at Emma Nolan. She hadn’t moved from her place at the counter but had turned to face him. Her face wore a cartoon-villain grin if ever he’d seen one. He’d messed up, big time. To his left, he heard someone say, “Oh, so you’re the guy? You’re the guy who wrote that thing about Emma?” That was all Killian needed. He stood up carefully, nodded at Ruby, and walked out of the diner. He could feel every eye in the place burning into his back. 

Once outside, he paused, trying to decide what to do. He wasn’t leaving town. Emma Nolan had stolen his career; she wasn’t going to steal his redemption, too. But what was his next move? As he stood on the sidewalk, he heard the door to Granny’s slam behind him. 

“If you’re looking for a more appetizing lunch, you might try the next town over.” Killian turned towards the voice and there stood Emma Nolan, smirking and clearly quite pleased with herself. “You know, if you came here in the pursuit of happiness, you might as well go back, because you can’t make me feel bad.”

Killian huffed and walked towards her, narrowing his eyes and setting his mouth into a firm line. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, Ms. Nolan,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’m here for vindication. In my heart, I know I’m right about you. You got me fired and you destroyed my reputation. You chew up men, spit them out, and you love doing it. And you’re going to do the same thing to this poor chap number four as you did to the previous three. You’re going to run again and I’m not leaving until you do.”

Emma smiled sweetly and tilted her head to one side as he spoke, clearly impervious to his words. Once he finished, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I still have my job.” With that, she turned and walked away from him and towards the sheriff’s station, leaving Killian standing there feeling enraged, insanely curious about this woman, and annoyed with himself for checking out her ass in those tight jeans.  
~~~~

Later that night, Emma opened the front door to her parents’ farm house. It was their weekly family dinner night and she was eager to tell them how she’d called out that asshole Killian Jones at Granny’s. As she peeled off her leather jacket, she heard her father laughing heartily from the living room and headed back to see what was so funny. 

As she stood at the entrance to the living room, Emma suddenly understood that expression, “you could have knocked me over with a feather.” There were her father and Killian Jones, sitting beside each other on the couch and sharing a bottle of what looked like expensive rum, laughing so hard they couldn’t sit upright. Graham sat in the armchair beside the couch, not laughing quite as hard but obviously partaking in the general merriment. None of them noticed her presence, so she cleared her throat (very loudly) and as they slowly came down from their laughter-induced high, they each turned their heads towards her, smiling.

Still trying to catch his breath after laughing so hard, her father stood up, walked over to Emma, and wrapped her in a big hug. She didn’t return it as she was still too thrown to fully respond, but she did glare at Killian Jones over her dad’s shoulder and threw Graham a look that said, “what the hell?” Releasing her, David stepped back towards the couch. “How was your day, Em?”

Emma’s mouth did its best impression of a fish gasping for air while her mind struggled to process the absurdity of the moment. How was her day? It was really freaking awesome until she’d walked in here and seen this buddy comedy scene between her father, fiancé, and worst enemy. Finally, she managed to form sentences. “It was good. But what exactly is going on here?” She looked directly at Killian as she spoke.

Picking up on her state of mind, she could see her father shift into mediation mode. “Now, honey, I know Killian did a terrible thing. But everyone makes mistakes, everyone does things they’re not proud of, and he’s here to apologize to us and to you for what he did. I’ve forgiven him, Graham has forgiven him,” he pointed at Graham, who nodded, “your mother has forgiven him, and I hope you will, too.” David turned to his daughter with a beseeching look on his face. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

Now this had to be a joke. There was no way, absolutely no way that the most important people in her life had not only fallen for this asshole’s charms but were asking for her to do the same. She pulled her eyes away from her father, surveyed Graham’s similarly pleading look, and landed on Killian Jones’ too-handsome face. He sat there, on the couch she used to do her homework on and the one she’d cried into after every wedding went south, attempting to look appropriately contrite but failing to keep the smug glint out of his eye, and Emma wanted to scream. She wanted to kick him out of the house and throw him in the ocean (hopefully he couldn’t swim). But instead, she smiled her “you’re full of shit” smile before looking to Graham. “Could I see you outside, babe?” With that, she turned on her heel and went out the front door.

She only had to wait a moment before Graham joined her. He reached for her hands, taking each of them in his own, and kissed her forehead. Emma wasn’t really eager for anyone to convince her to let bygones be bygones, but she appreciated the comfort. 

“How could you all do this? How could you forgive him?” She hated how whiny and upset she sounded even as she was trying for tough and livid. “The whole country thinks I’m a man-eater, that I’m a horrible person because of him and you all just let it go because he said he’s sorry?” Her throat was getting tight and she struggled to hold back tears. 

Graham pulled her closer to him and wrapped one arm around her back. “You know your parents can’t maintain anger long, Ems, and they definitely can’t maintain it in the face of an apology by the offending party. And I, I just want to get past this so that he and his stupid story don’t overshadow our wedding. He just doesn’t matter and neither does the rest of the country and what they think. He did a shitty thing, but I’d much rather focus on the amazing thing coming up. But it happened to you, so if you need to stay mad at him, I totally get it. I just want you to consider that maybe life is too short to keep hating him when you’ve already gotten your well-deserved revenge.”

Emma sighed into his chest. He made some good points. If only Killian hadn’t shown up here. She could totally get past this if he hadn’t shown up here, in her town. Despite what he’d told her parents and Graham, Killian Jones was not here simply to make amends. That could have been done in a letter or email or even a phone call (not that she would have read anything he sent or stopped herself from hanging up on him). He’d told her point-blank at the diner today that he was here to see her run again and presumably tell the world about it. Well, he’d have a hard time writing anything once she said “I do” in a few weeks. But that revenge was too far away and the sting of everyone around her falling for his charm too close. He needed to leave and she had to find a way to make that happen.

But she also couldn’t hold it against Graham for wanting to focus on their wedding or begrudge her parents for their good hearts and trusting natures. Pulling back from him, Emma looked up at Graham before saying, “I get why you guys forgive him. And I promise to calm down and not make every moment about him. But I still don’t trust him. I don’t think he’s here just to apologize. And I’m not going to feel better until he’s gone. But if you want me to go in there and eat dinner with him at the table, I’ll do it. Though I won’t promise to play nice if he doesn’t.”

Graham chuckled. “All right, that’s a deal. Now let’s go eat, I’m starving.”

~~~~

When Emma and Graham entered the dining room, they found Killian sitting beside her father and apparently telling a joke that all of them, including her mother, found absolutely hilarious. Emma immediately wished she hadn’t told Graham that she’d be nice. The sight of Killian Jones entertaining her parents with his stupid charming anecdotes (or whatever it was that he was saying to make them laugh so much) made her want to punch him. She briefly wondered if he’d managed to drug them somehow, but her mother interrupted that line of thought.

“Oh sweetie! I’m so glad you’re here. Killian was just telling us this story about this person named Little John who drank so much that he thought he was a flying monkey like in Wizard of Oz! He tried to fly!” She walked over to Emma, gave her a big hug, and whispered in her ear. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

Emma smiled stiffly at her mom, then sat down between Graham and her dad. Unfortunately this meant sitting directly across from Killian. She gave him her best “screw you” smile and said, “Guess you had to be there.” 

Killian smiled softly. “Likely so, darling. But amusing stories aren’t why I’m here. I want to apologize, Emma, for my column. It was out of line. I pushed the story and I was wrong. I made a mistake. I hope you can forgive me.” 

“In other words, Ems, he’s only human.” Emma whipped her head in father’s direction. Really? Less than an hour and her father was already on Killian’s side? What happened to family loyalty? Just as she was about to respond, she felt Graham’s hand squeezing her thigh in a silent but very obvious plea for civility.

Emma took a deep breath, counted to ten, and reminded herself that any attempt to convince her parents that Killian was plotting something would be futile. Once they’d forgiven someone, that was it. The conversation moved on to something else and Emma was grateful to be out of the spotlight. She reached for a roll and began to butter it. And if she briefly pictured stabbing Killian Jones with the very dull butter knife that was in her hands, no one need ever know. As she forcefully smeared the butter on the roll, however, she happened to meet Killian’s eye and somehow she knew that he knew that her butter violence had to do with him. For a moment, they just stared at each other across the table. How were his eyes that blue? His picture in the paper was black and white; she’d had no idea that his eyes were such an intense, incredible color…. 

“Sweetie, why don’t you tell Killian about your honeymoon plans?” Her mother snapped Emma from her trance. Emma shook her head and blinked several times, trying to shake both the weird moment she and Killian had just had (was he a hypnotist as well as a lying jerk?), and then looked at her mother with disbelief. Seriously, had there been a plan to maximize her annoyance concocted before her arrival tonight? Why was her mother offering up information to this slimy reporter, and information about her honeymoon no less? She felt Graham’s hand on her leg again. 

“Mom, I’m sure he doesn’t care about our honeymoon plans.” He was, after all, hoping there wouldn’t be a honeymoon so he could prove to everyone that he’d been right about her man-eater ways. 

“We’re going to spend two weeks hiking along the Appalachian Trail. I’m really into hiking and communing with nature and I’m excited to share it with Emma.” As Graham spoke, all Emma could think was “traitor.” She pushed his hand off her leg and reached for her wine glass, glaring at Killian over the rim. His eyebrows had shot straight to his hairline and Emma could tell he was biting back a smirk.

The almost-smirk was gone instantly, though, and replaced by a charming smile that said “please, tell me more.” A reporter’s smile. The kind of smile that got unsuspecting victims to spill secrets to a stranger. “Has Emma never been hiking with you before, Graham?” That question made Emma stop breathing for a moment. She looked up from her wine and saw Killian staring straight at her, as if the question were somehow meant for her and not for Graham. But no one else seemed to notice that time had stood still, so Emma sat up straighter and focused on cutting up her chicken. 

“She’s been on quite a few day hikes with me but we’ve never camped. Being a sheriff’s deputy keeps her rather busy and her schedule can be unpredictable. But Leroy’s antics won’t interfere with this plan.” Graham turned to smile at her and her heart felt warm. For a moment, she forgot Killian Jones and whatever stupid scheme he had going and focused on how she was going to marry an amazing man in less than a month. She smiled back at Graham, content to inhabit their own little blissful bubble for a moment, but Killian’s voice burst it.

“Well, there’s nothing like a nuptial bed made of dried leaves and hard earth or sharing it with bears and bugs.” Her father chuckled and her mother was trying very hard not to, hiding her grin behind her hand. Graham stiffened slightly but smiled, brushing this off like he did so many other things. Killian sat there smiling mischievously and staring straight at Emma, as if she were the only person on the planet. Emma didn’t think she’d ever glared at someone so hard in her life. The next time someone asked her what superpower she’d like to have, she’d say laser death rays shooting from her eyes. They’d come in handy in moments like this. Until she absorbed some crazy energy like Captain Marvel or something, though, she’d have to settle for putting him in his place in other ways.

“Graham founded and leads a nature education nonprofit. Kids from all over Maine come to learn wilderness skills, teamwork, and appreciation for the environment. And he organizes monthly environmental cleanups around town, at the docks and along the highway. And,” she paused for dramatic effect, “he’s climbed Everest.” Emma thoroughly enjoyed the look of total shock on Killian’s face and her heart swelled with pride over her fiancé’s achievements.

“Everest?” Killian’s voice had lost its confidence.

“Twice.” Emma cocked an eyebrow and dared him to respond. “Without oxygen.”

For the rest of dinner, Killian steered clear of asking questions about her relationship and seemed to go out of his way to avoid making eye contact with her. The conversation wandered from her mother’s stories of third graders’ antics to her father’s love of fencing to where the name Storybrooke came from. Emma did notice that Killian never once shared anything personal about himself; all of his stories were about other people. After dessert and hot cocoa sprinkled with cinnamon, she congratulated herself on getting through the meal without committing murder and stood up to leave, motioning for Graham to do the same.

“Thank you so much for dinner, Mom. Dad, I’ll see you in the morning.” She hugged them both and grabbed Graham’s hand as they made their way towards the front door. Before she opened it, she paused and looked at Killian, who looked straight at her for the first time in an hour. “Have a good trip back to Boston, Killian.” 

~~~~

After the front door closed behind Emma and Graham, David offered Killian a drink, which he accepted gladly. Emma Nolan was even feistier than he’d expected her to be after her letter to Regina. This piece wouldn’t be easy to write. But he’d managed to win over her parents and he might not have another chance to pump them for information, so he had to take a chance. “Your daughter is a lovely woman. I just cannot picture her leaving three grooms at the altar.”

If either of them were surprised by his comment, they hid it well. Mary Margaret hummed pensively and David swirled his drink, obviously carefully considering how to respond. Finally, Mary Margaret sighed heavily and looked at Killian.

“She doesn’t do it on purpose. On paper, with the simple facts of the matter laid out, it does look like Emma enjoys getting to the last inch before the finish line and then turning around and running in the other direction. It looks like she enjoys hurting people. But she isn’t that way at all. Emma has so much love to give, has such a pure heart, and she really believes in love. I think she’s just scared.” 

David frowned as his wife said this, clearly disagreeing. “I think the only person who knows why these things have happened is Emma.” His face was etched with concern and his voice was grave. “And since she’s not one to share her thoughts or emotions readily, the rest of us are left to guess. But I do know that she would never intentionally hurt someone. She’s not malicious. You can see it on her face in the videos; her leaving those weddings was not planned.”

Killian sat up straight. “Videos?” He tried hard to sound nonchalant, but the reporter in him was jumping up and down with glee. If there were videos of her ditching these poor blokes, he’d have truckloads of evidence. Of course her parents didn’t think she did this on purpose. What kind of parent would see their daughter as a cold, heartless man-eater? But if he could see those videos, this piece might be easier to write than he’d thought ten minutes ago. 

Nodding, Mary Margaret pointed to a bookcase on the opposite wall that was full of DVDs. “Each of the ceremonies was filmed. I don’t know why we kept them, we’re never going to watch them. Emma doesn’t even know they exist. They’re down on the bottom shelf there. You can borrow them if you like and see for yourself. She’s not walking down that aisle with an evil grin on her face, relishing in the anticipation of causing pain.”

Half an hour later, DVDs in hand, Killian thanked the Nolans for a lovely evening and for their forgiveness, drove back to Granny’s Bed and Breakfast, and thanked the gods that he’d never bothered to replace his old laptop with its built-in DVD drive. He could taste the vindication already.


End file.
